Toward the Sunrise
by Elemmire2
Summary: Aragorn “Thorongil” has convinced Ecthelion that a raid on Umbar is Gondor’s best hope. Now he must face–and defeat–the mighty Corsairs of Umbar. Chapter Six of Six: Valediction. Now complete!
1. Advent

  
**Chapter 1: Advent**

Minas Tirith, 26 Girithron (December), 2979

It was the dark before dawn when Aragorn arrived in Minas Tirith: morrowdim, when the stars fade in the sky and the far horizon blushes faintly before the coming of the sun. 

The great wains that fed the city-people had departed, but the rich yeast scent of fresh-baked bread, the grinding and chopping of butcher knives, the bounty of potatoes, carrots, apples, and other late fruits that spilt from baskets and crates, had already begun to draw the house-wives and kitchen-maids down to the markets of the first circle. Aragorn wove slowly through the chattering women, glad to be once again in the White City, which these ten years past had been his home. Past the second gate the streets grew silent and thoughtful, yet no more a stranger to the man they called Thorongil, the pale stone echoing his steps as he climbed to the small town house he kept in the sixth circle. 

He stopped there only briefly: long enough to wash the river-smell off and sit down to the porridge, bread and butter that his housekeeper brought him. Then he arrayed himself in clean garb, and passed through the seventh gate 

He did not have far to go to deliver his report. The Steward was sitting on the lip of the fountain, the bones of the White Tree casting only bare shadows on him in the early light. Aragorn stopped a few paces short of him and bowed. 

"My lord." 

The Steward looked up and smiled. "Thorongil. I am glad to see you returned." 

He reached out his arm and Aragorn came forward and grasped it, helping Ecthelion to rise. Together they walked to the small garden that abutted the King's House. It was late in the year, but there was yet some colour in the yard: shiny laurel leaves dressed with red berries, bronze-leafed mahonia tucked away from the wind, and toothed wintergreen shrubs, brought from NÃºmenor long ago. Amongst them they settled on a small bench. 

"I received your last letter from Pelargir," Ecthelion said, "and I am troubled by it." 

"I was uncertain what to say," replied Aragorn. "I do not have the proof that you desire. Yet all that I am, and all that I know, tells me that Gondor faces a dire threat. Forests fallen to the axe. New shipbuilding yards in Umbar. Increased attacks on Gondorian shipping, from the coasts of Andrast to the Ethir itself. They are building a great fleet. And when Sauron calls, they will fall on us like a black storm." 

"It has been nearly two hundred and fifty years, Thorongil, since the Corsairs have made any serious raids on our shores. I am minded to look to our more immediate problems." 

"My lord, they are an immediate problem. Orcs infest Ithilien. The Haradrim are re-establishing themselves in South Gondor. And Umbar is building a great fleet. How will Gondor face all three at once?" 

They were both silent for a while. The risen sun brushed lambent on the milky ramparts and towers of the White City, and for a moment they could forget the chill of winter, and the lurking shadow in the East; and Ecthelion seemed again the great and venerable lord of an ancient and mighty people. But then the light faltered, as if the Enemy had reached forth and sucked some strength out of the sun's rays, leaving only bleak fingers to stretch across the valley and accost the city's walls. 

"Let me carry the war to Umbar, lord. Let me raze their fleet before it can be a threat to our shores." 

Ecthelion sighed wearily. "I will think on it, Thorongil. But for now, please leave me." 

Aragorn rose and bowed, and then made his way through the court to the great stone parapet that jutted out of the mountainside. Along the east wall there was an embrasure with a stone bench set beneath the sill. He did not sit, but leaned against the wall and looked out over the wide valley below and the great river that wound through it. 

Anduin she was called in the noble tongue. In the North she ran fast and clear, raw with snowmelt. Here she flowed like a great slothful serpent, her belly heavy with the issue of many lesser streams, slinking around the foot of the White Mountains, growing ever wider and more ponderous as she curved toward the sea, until at last she unwound herself and slumped into the Bay of Belfalas. 

Which is where he had been, not two months past, fighting for his life and his ship. They had been escorting a fleet of salt traders, heavy laden and bound for Pelargir, when three black sails materialized on the horizon. He had heard shouts on deck, and then one of his men had come barreling down the hatch, bidding him come quickly on to the deck. There he had stood and watched as the black sails were pulled down and great banks of oars dipped into the water. Nimchathol might outrun them, but the heavy cargo ships were no match for the swift slave-rowed galleys of the corsairs. 

So he had called his sailing master to him, and set him to turn the ship and ready her for battle. Soon his crew was at the oars, pulling to the ever-faster beat of the drummer, pulling them into battle. They were well trained. Arrows were let loose, and the decks bristled with spent shafts. Beringol was a crafty master, and they shore off a whole bank of the lead ship's oars with a clever pass; but then the hooks flew, and they were grappled tight, and it was sword and spear work. 

Morlas had gone forth with oil and torches, to set the corsair ships alight, while he had stayed behind to direct defenses. The pirates swarmed over the ship, a filthy mass of cutthroats and brigands, slashing at the rigging and struggling with his men. The bravest died the most swiftly, on Aragorn's own blade. And then there was a blaze of fire, and flame licked up into the sky. Shouts arose amongst the corsairs. His crew hastened to cut the ropes and they tore away. A few of his soldiers made it back, but Morlas never returned. Another good man lost, and none to take his place. 

As he stood brooding, the sound of heavy footsteps came to him, their approach firm and measured. The guards had not said he was in the city; Denethor must have ridden in from Osgiliath after Aragorn had himself arrived. But Denethor would not consider that an excuse, so he was probably in for an unpleasant conversation. 

"Thorongil." 

Aragorn turned and bowed courteously. "Lord Denethor." 

His glance flickered to the valley below. "I see you are safely returned." 

"Indeed. My ship arrived this morning." 

"And do you bring what you sought?" 

"No." Aragorn sighed. "But you have read my dispatches." 

"Have I?" Denethor inquired. 

"Whatever you think, Denethor, I have made no secret reports." 

Denethor snorted. "Naturally. And I'm sure you and the Steward were having a delightful conversation about dahlias or dinner parties or some such this morn." 

"I went to him because you were not in the city," said Aragorn defensively, "and spoke naught new. He will think on my words, but he will not act on them." 

"So it always is," Denethor agreed, "but I like it not that you went to him first, when I would soon arrive myself." 

"Then I apologize, lord." Denethor seemed assuaged, though inwardly Aragorn wondered that he had escaped so lightly from his wrath. Denethor was ever suspicious of him, and quick to call him to account. But it seemed he had weightier things on his mind this morning. 

"Suspicions, rumours, that is still all you have." 

"To gather intelligence on the sea, it is most difficult," he said, "and by the time information reaches us from Umbar, it is months out of date." 

"We cannot strike if we do not know the size of their force, let alone where it is located. Without such knowledge, how can we form successful plans?" 

"From here we cannot. We must rely upon the Captains we send." 

Denethor turned towards him angrily. "You mean we must send you, and let you decide! Why should we put our faith in you, and not trust to our own wisdom? You are not the only able Captain in Gondor." 

"Am I not Captain of the Ships?" 

"Against my desires, yea. My father has put great trust in you, Thorongil, but you are no great mariner." 

"No," retorted Aragorn, "but those who serve me are, and I know when to rely upon their expertise." 

"Are you implying that I do not?" 

Denethor's voice was low and threatening now, but Aragorn would not back down. "Do you not hesitate to do so now? But it is not yours, son of Ecthelion, to be always in the place of battle." 

"You overrate yourself, Thorongil. Such wild offenses you make-one day you will fail, and then what will be the price for Gondor?" 

"No greater than if she stood, immovable as a mountain, until the flood swallowed her up," he said hotly. "If we do not now thrust apart some number of our enemies, even these ramparts will not save Gondor." 

"Three thousand years and more these walls have stood unbroken, outlander. Not by wizards or mercenaries has she been made strong, and she needs neither now!" 

If their conversation had begun quietly, it was not so now, and they were beginning to attract attention. Ecthelion, surrounded by a bevy of lordlings and advisors, had now appeared upon the green, and were approaching with what rapidity the Steward could. 

Denethor looked at them come on. "Half the city fawns at your feet, Thorongil, but not I. I would that you would take your sword and your honeyed tongue elsewhere. Then maybe Gondor would know peace." Denethor's hand had strayed to his sword-hilt. 

"For a time, mayhap. But this war is greater than you understand. And by wizards and mercenaries, maybe, will her fate be decided!" 

"It is not yours to choose!" Denethor retorted angrily. 

"Nor yours!" Sharp his words were, but quiet, for he saw that the Steward and several other lords were almost upon them. He realized he, too, was gripping his swordhilt, and removed his hand rather hastily before bowing to the Steward. 

"What in Middle-earth are you two doing?" the Steward demanded, wheezing slightly. 

"We were merely...discussing Gondor's future, my lord." Aragorn replied, perhaps less smoothly than was his wont. Denethor merely scowled. 

"And do you always do that with your hands on your sword hilts?" 

"Sometimes, my lord." Aragorn admitted wryly. His arguments with Denethor had never actually come to blows before, but they were legendary nonetheless. (Gandalf said it was because Denethor was stubborn and misguided. Aragorn thought that he and Denethor were just too much alike-both in nature and ambitions.) It was for the best, he thought, that they had been interrupted this time! 

"I expect better of you both, and I do not wish to see this scene repeated." the Steward said. "Denethor, if you have nothing better to do than badger Thorongil, you can scribe tomorrow's agenda for me." 

"As you wish, Father." 

Ecthelion looked at his son suspiciously for a moment, but then turned and with his retinue walked back to the tower. Denethor caught his eye before following, but Aragorn turned away with a sigh. How had their conversation gone so askew? 

Wearily he padded back through the gate and down to his town house. Perhaps he could rest for a while before his duties descended upon him. As he climbed the creaking stairs to his room he heard his housekeeper call out to him. 

"Oh, Master Thorongil, I quite forgot. 'Twas a letter came for you last week. I've set it on your desk." 

_Author's Notes_

Girithron: December. The Dúnedain continued to use the Sindarin month names, although most peoples who spoke the common tongue used the Quenya forms. (Canon) 

Captain of the Ships: 1) A Gondorian military post, held by Castamir during Eldacar's reign (Canon) 2) The second highest post in the Gondorian military; used primarily when the Captain-General was uninterested in or too busy to direct Gondor's naval operations himself. Currently held by "Thorongil". 

_This is my first long story & has been through many revisions. Compliments & criticism are both appreciated, and I will try to reciprocate._

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, and the characters, settings, places and languages, save those that are original to me, belong to the Tolkien Estate.


	2. Politics

_Please note minor revisions to the end of Chapter 1._

**Chapter 2: Politics**

Minas Tirith, 27 Girithron (December), 2979

He had risen with the dawn, as was his habit, and after breaking his fast had walked down to the gates and out onto the Pelennor. The fields were slick with last night's rain, and the road gave a sloppy crunch under foot. He turned off the main way fare and onto a gravel path rutted by wagon wheels. He leapt the small ditch at the roadside and pushed his way through the tall weeds that skirted it, coming alongside a rotting fence and a pasture studded with old oaks. 

Aragorn leant gently against the fence, aware that he had got his boots and breeches soaked, and his hair disheveled, and that he looked not at all a proper Gondorian, and gave a low whistle. From across the field the old stallion looked up, and then trotted over to greet his master. Ælfweald had been his stalwart companion through many campaigns, but age had settled on him now in a heavy blanket, Aragorn thought, offering the apple he had brought along. Ælfweald chomped contentedly, and then nosed around for more. His manner was easy, but he was thin and his back had begun to sag. He might bear Aragorn in parade or on a country jaunt, but he would never again carry him into battle. 

Of death in battle, Aragorn knew a great deal. His father had died so, and many men he had known, and horses also. But this sad withering of flesh...Ecthelion had not looked so agéd, when he had left in the autumn, nor Ælfweald so timeworn. Now, he saw, their years were coming to an end; and Thengel's also. 

It was with thoughts of death that Aragorn returned to the city, cleaned himself up, and eased into his seat in Ecthelion's council chambers. It was already half-full of lords: Denethor, scowling indiscriminately; Belvorin, the fleshy lord of Ringo Vale, half-asleep in his chair; Fóldur and Angnor, bickering over tariffs on the lower Ringló; and many others besides, some sitting, some standing, and some hunched over in varying states of drunkenness or recovery. For a moment his presence went unnoticed; but then Eradan, the Warden of the Keys, came over to greet him, gripping him on the shoulder and settling into the chair beside him. 

"Captain Thorongil! A belated entry, but a most welcome one-what has delayed you so? We expected you last week." 

"The weather in the bay turned ill on us," Aragorn said, "and of our battle with pirates you have no doubt heard already." 

"That is right," he replied, "Ecthelion mentioned it last afternoon. I had forgot. I hope your losses were not too great." 

"Good men-men who could not be spared. So it always is in war." 

"Technically we are not at war." 

"Tell the Corsairs that!" 

"I am sorry," said Aragorn, after a moment. "I did not mean to be sharp with you." 

"It is no matter," said Eradan slowly. "I have never liked ships, nor trusted the sea. Give me stone walls and stone floors, and I am content. I was so ill the last time I sailed that I made the Steward promise never to make me take ship again." 

"Your duty lies here." 

"Yes. But to you and the coastal lords, I must seem sheltered and narrow- minded. I have not been out of sight of the City in more years than I can count. I cannot think of war upon the sea without feeling green." 

"Even you might get your sea legs in time, Eradan. But if ships suit you not, then leave them to me." 

"And so I do, Captain, and so I do. But enough serious talk-look who comes now! It is my favourite jester." 

Aragorn looked up to see Béladur stray into the room: muttering to himself, nearly colliding with the upstart furnishings, the Steward's treasurer absently landed in a seat, his usual absorption with notes and figures uplifted to an obsession even a Balrog could not distract him from. 

Eradan leaned over and whispered into Aragorn's ear. "If ever I look that way, Thorongil, you must put me on a ship, whatever I say, and find me some battle to stir my blood." 

"Only if you promise to do the same," Aragorn murmured back, feeling his heart lift a little. 

The Steward entered then, followed by his secretary, Duilin, and Adrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth; all the lords rose respectfully, and then it was time for the council to settle down to business. 

"Prince Adrahil," the Steward began, "I have called this council at your behest, in order that we may consider the matter of Umbar." 

"Indeed my lord," Adrahil replied, raising his chin from where it had rested on his hands. "Over the past year the Corsairs have grown increasingly bold. Thirteen of our merchant vessels were accosted last year, and we have lost four warships fighting them." 

Forlas snorted, and rumbled from his seat down the table. "Thirteen out of a fleet of how many hundred? While you worry about trading profits, Prince, Mordor sits upon our very doorstep." 

"Protecting Gondor's shipping is not a luxury, but a necessity." Prince Adrahil replied smoothly. "Even the Bay is no longer safe; several of those vessels were salt traders, bound for Pelargir. Half of Gondor depends on those shipments-including Lossarnach." 

Forlas just grunted. Aragorn wondered idly whether Forlas would change his tune if it were wine shipments, not salt shipments, which were in jeopardy. 

"And the merchant crews?" Erandir asked from beside him. 

"There has been no word of them. Very likely the survivors were kept captive to work the oars, or sold as slaves in Umbar." 

If they did not act soon, Aragorn knew, it would be more than merchantmen under their cruel whips. For a moment, indeed, there was silence at the table. 

"For your losses you have my condolences, Prince Adrahil, but I wonder why you have brought this before the council," said Galadan of AnÃ³rien. "Piracy is nothing new. Your fleet, and that of the other coastal fiefs, has been dedicated to fighting it for centuries. Why do you come to us now?" 

Fóldur spit out his words before Adrahil could answer. "Because it is no longer enough. We may defeat one ship, but the next month there are two more. You sit safe behind the barrier of the Anduin. Our farms and villages lie open to the sea. Bolder they grow, the Corsairs. Soon piracy will turn to plundering. Must our settlements fall under their swords before you will listen?" 

"Speculation!" Forlas bellowed. "'Tis a hundred years since they've dared attack our shores in strength." 

"More like two hundred," muttered Eowél of Lebennin. 

Fóldur scowled at him. "They are coming," he said. "Coming, coming, coming." 

"A creeper may seem harmless enough as it twists it's way up a trunk," Adrahil said, "but if left untrimmed, the vines may strangle the whole tree." 

"And were Umbar a vine to be shorn with a knife, then I would do it, Prince," Galadan said. "But we do not have the strength to take Umbar-we have not had it for many long years. We cannot war with both her and Mordor." 

"Nay, we cannot." Ostoher, the Lord of Tolfalas, at last spoke up, his urgent voice rough and raspy. "Which is why we must act now, to forestall the growing strength of Umbar before we have no choice but war." 

"What is your proposal?" asked the Steward. 

"A strike-a strike upon the ships of Umbar. Torch their ships and yards, and it would be many long years before they could rise again in threat to us." 

Forlas caught Aragorn's eye-not difficult, as he was sitting right across from him-and gave a long 'ahhhhh'. "I wondered where Captain Thorongil fit into all this." Returning his gaze to Ostoher, he continued, "This is hardly a new plan, Lord Ostoher. And as I recall, it has already been rejected by the Steward-as unfeasible." 

Aragorn leaned forward, lacing his fingers. "Say rather-problematic, which I do not deny. It is true that a raid on Umbar would be difficult. Secrecy would be critical, as would be no shortage of good luck. But our ships are faster, and our archers of surpassing reach. If we can catch them unaware in the harbour, we can decimate their fleet with little loss to ourselves." 

"If." 

He returned Forlas' gaze levelly. "We cannot choose our enemies, lord, but we can choose the manner of our meeting. Open sea battles carry far more risks, and offer far lesser gains. Better to pile the advantages in our favour." 

"More risks?" said Eówel. "You propose to risk the better part of our fleet." 

"The fleet need not be so large," Aragorn replied. "Our spies report that Um- gîrtab, the Captain of the Haven, has grown overconfident. Thinking that Gondor would not dare to attack Umbar, he has withdrawn resources from the Ab- anzakâr in order to strengthen his raiders. Those two towers are all that guard the harbour. If they are compromised, even a small fleet can do significant damage before Um-gîrtab can mount a strong defense." 

"And can you compromise them, Captain?" Galadan asked. 

"We believe so, lord, by outfitting several of our largest dromunds with heavy mangonel." 

Ostoher began to speak, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. "Ah, forgive me," he said, clearing his throat. "As to the mangonel, the Prince, Valandur and I have been discussing the matter. We have a sufficient number already built that, with a little modification, will suit admirably. They will be heavy enough to throw boulders, and should have good effect against the stone towers. We will still outfit the smaller ships with fire-throwers, of course." 

"I take it that the Pelargir Council is in agreement with this plan, then?" Galadan asked, rather dryly. 

"We have some reservations, but Pelargir feels the need as clearly as Dol Amroth," Valandur responded. "Nonetheless, in the absence of agreement from the Steward and Captain-General, I find this discussion somewhat pointless. The decision is not ours to make." 

"Denethor?" Forlas prompted. 

"The threat from Umbar is real," said Denethor, "But I am unconvinced by this so-called plan. Thorongil has admitted to me that his intelligence is out of date and incomplete. We do not know what their true strength is, nor can we be certain of their intentions. We cannot afford to waste men and resources on Thorongil's derring-do, not when our war with Mordor is so unrelenting. We should choose a more defensive plan." 

"Defensive!" Fóldur scoffed. "What would you have us do, build a curtain wall out of seaweed?" 

Verion placed a gentling hand upon his uncle's shoulder. "We have built up defenses as best we can, my lord, but our coastlines are long and our people spread thinly. Lord Ostoher has spoken truly. While our taxes and tariffs come here to fight Mordor, how can we raise a fleet large enough to defend our coastline? We must strike, and quickly. And Thorongil is an able captain. Andrast would prefer no other leader." 

Aragorn nodded his thanks. "It is true that we have no certainties. But who does, in war? It is better to strike early and hard, before they may expect us. In three months the sea will be quiet and Umbar will return to menacing our coasts. We must act now." 

"To all of you I have listened," said the Steward, "and your thoughts I will consider closely. But still this plan seems too rash to me. Failure would be too costly." 

"Sometimes risks must be taken," said the Prince. 

"Yes," replied Ecthelion, "but they must be chosen carefully, as Thorongil has said. We will discuss this further. But it is nearly noon, and time to break for lunch." 

Aragorn sighed unhappily as the council members trickled out of the room. Ostoher placed a hand on his shoulder as he passed. "It is up to you, now," he muttered. 

Aragorn mulled his options. This was the broadest coalition yet, and still the Steward hesitated! For a brief moment he wished Forlas would just keel over from too much wine. But that was unkind, he knew, as well as unlikely. Which left only one choice, he thought, as he rose. 

He caught up with Denethor in the hall. "May I have a word with you, sir?" 

"Of course, Captain." 

They walked down the stairs and out into the courtyard. A chill wind swept down from the North, and the paving was wet from rain showers. Beside the fountain stood the withered white tree, its barren branches forlorn in the clouded light. 

Aragorn led him out onto the citadel's granite prow. They stood there for a moment, looking into the East, cloaks flapping, before he turned to Denethor. 

"We both see the threat from Umbar. Your father sees it also." 

"Yes." 

"Only Umbar gains from our delay." 

"Yes." 

"Then why will you do nothing?" Aragorn asked, frustrated. "Is Gondor not more important than our own quarrels?" He leaned against the parapet, resting his forehead upon the knuckles of his right hand. "I can do this, Denethor. I can defeat them. I must. Can you not see this? If we spoke together, you and I, surely Ecthelion would listen!" 

For a long while Denethor looked out over the valley to the dark peaks of the Ephel Duath and the angry mountain behind them. 

"Yes," he said at last. "But there would be a condition. I will let you have this mission, Thorongil, when I could deny it. But it will be your last." 

Away east looked Aragorn, and then north; and he thought of the letter in his pocket; and said: "It is agreed, then." 

To the council chambers they returned, and when the lords reconvened Aragorn and Denethor spoke with one voice. 

_Author's Notes_

Um-gîrtab: the Captain of the Havens of Umbar. Haradric, 'the scorpion of Umbar'. 

Ab-anzakâr: the towers that guard the entrance to the main harbour of Umbar. Haradric 'sea-towers'. 

Present at the council:  
Ecthelion. Steward.  
Eradan. Warden of the Keys.  
Denethor. Captain-General; Heir of Ecthelion.  
Aragorn (as Thorongil). Captain of the Ships.  
_Duilin. Ecthelion's Secretary.  
Béladur. Ecthelion's Treasurer.  
Mallor. Ecthelion's Chamberlain.  
Vilmar. Ecthelion's Chief Justice. _  
Galadan. Lord of Anorien.  
Forlas. Lord of Lossarnach.  
_Forlong. Heir of Forlas._  
Valandur. Head of the Council of Lords of Pelargir.  
Eowél. Lord of Lebennin.  
_Malthor. Heir of Malthegil, Chieftain of the Ethir-folk.  
Angnor. Lord of Lamedon.  
Angbor. Heir of Angnor.  
Belvorin. Lord of Ringlo-Vale.  
Amálith. Lord of Dor-en-Ernil. _  
Ostoher. Lord of Tolfalas.  
Adrahil. Prince of Dol Amroth.  
_Derondir. Lord of Morthad. _  
Fóldur. Lord of Anfalas.  
_Golasgil. Heir of Fóldur.  
Hirluin. Heir of the Lord of Pinnath Gelin._  
Verion. Heir of the Lord of Andrast; Fóldur's nephew.

Canon characters.

Individuals in _italic_ have no speaking lines. 

_This is my first long story & has been through many revisions. Compliments & criticism are both appreciated, and I will try to reciprocate._

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, and the characters, settings, places and languages, save those that are original to me, belong to the Tolkien Estate.


	3. Counsels

**Chapter 3: Counsels**

_Off Harondar, 21 Nínui (February), 2980_

He stood at the prow of _Nimchathol_ as she coasted in toward the sandy shoreline of Harondar, watching his fleet ground upon the beach under the paling sky. The ships had flown swiftly today, buoyed by a brisk North wind, and he expected they would reach Umbar in four days. If the weather held, of course; if his luck held. 

At the top of the beach he could see the _Alphion_ already pulled out and Imrahil's scouting parties scrambling up the bluffs. He strode back down the deck, mindful of the sails and lines that littered it, to where Beringol stood at the helm. 

"Bring us in just behind the _Alphion_, and signal the rest of the galleys to draw in on our left." 

"Aye, sir," his sailing master responded. Aragorn stretched languidly and leaned over the bulwark, listening to the rhythmic beat of the drum and rush of the oars on the water, and the shouts of his crew as they sent up signal flags and prepared to beach the ship. Before the sun spread her last rays over the sea all of the dromunds had been pulled up onto the beach, and those of greater draught were anchored just off it, and the wafting scent of roast mutton drew men around the campfires for a well-earned supper. 

Among the rows of fires and tents Aragorn made his way, often stopping to speak to those he knew, or examining the progress of the men repairing tattered sails or fraying lines. Behind him his purser fluttered nervously, parchment rustling, murmuring unheeded of rosters and supplies and ship's accounts, until at last Aragorn invented an errand and sent him off. 

When he was satisfied that the men were in good spirits, and the ships in good shape, he returned to his own camp, under the dark shadow of _Nimchathol_'s hull. Aragorn found Beringol seated there, beside the officer's campfire, a sheaf of paper balanced on one knee and his quill in hand. 

"Another letter?" Aragorn asked with a smile as he settled down beside him. One of his men discreetly brought his dinner. 

"Aye, Captain," Beringol said, returning the smile. "Melneth is visiting some cousins in the country, and I know the steward of the villa-he has promised to slip some letters in for me." 

"Finish it, and then we'll talk." 

Beringol nodded, and returned to his composition. Aragorn polished off his meal, and then turned to rifling the papers his purser had pushed at him before their parting. He supposed that a few did indeed need his attention. He was about to go searching for ink and quill when Beringol spoke: 

"_'As the veiled sun renews the heart,  
Of weary sailors when with piercing dart,_

She dusts aside the dark clouds,  
Throws off her winter shrouds,

And glints again upon the sparkling spray,  
Her lucent beams to light the way;

So does the spark that dwelleth in your eyes,  
Split through the grey of those internal skies,

And then I know that hope is never lost,  
It nothing slays or can exhaust,

And though I wander and my paths are long,  
My way is lighted...'"

His brows furrowed. "_Song? Strong?_ Yes-_'My way is lighted by your love so strong.'_" He set it down, and looked to Aragorn. "What do you think?" 

Setting his papers aside, Aragorn rubbed his hands slowly in front of the fire. "Have you still hope, Beringol?" 

His companion set down his quill. "That I will ever win Lord Valandur's permission? No-no, perhaps not, anymore." There was a poignant sadness on his face, a melancholy that Aragorn knew all to well. "I am not oblivious to what men think, you know; how they laugh and jest at my expense." He ran his hand though the dirt, cupping some on his palm, and crumbling let it fall through his fingers. "I have no rank or fortune with which to woo. And youth-youth that thinks the world is won without...well," he said, dusting his hands off, "Well, he is long passed away. But though it is folly, I cannot turn from her." 

Aragorn thought wistfully of his own ladylove, far away. "I do not think you are foolish," he said softly. "Overly poetic, maybe." 

He gave a wry smile. "Thank you." He scratched his nose and glanced at the sky; then tucked his letter away and capped his inkbottle. "But you did not come to discuss my love life, Captain. Have you decided?" 

"Indeed I have. Caution the Council counsels; but fortune favours the bold. It is only by audacity, through actions unexpected in timing and stunning in scope, that we may hope to hold back the might of the East." 

"Now which of us is overly poetic?" 

Aragorn smiled. "We are a matched pair, it seems." 

The flames cackled as Beringol fed them a fagot. "Bold your new plan is, but maybe too bold," he said. "You always brush off talk of political consequences. But even if we succeed, you may face trouble in the City. This is not the plan the Council agreed to. The Steward may overlook your improvisations, but will Lord Denethor?" 

"Denethor and I have an...understanding." He ought to tell him, thought Aragorn; no, not yet. When this was over, perhaps. "And the Council is not important." 

Beringol must have sensed his indecision, for he gave him a long look. "Two months ago, the Council was everything." 

"I am out of their reach now," Aragorn said. Forever. 

"For the moment, yes," said Beringol, looking unconvinced. Aragorn picked up a stick and toyed with the fire to avoid his gaze. "That aside," Beringol finally continued, "there are still my original concerns." 

"Yes," Aragorn said, "You have doubted this whole expedition." He set the stick aside. "But what ill portents grace our course? The wind is strong, the sky is clear, and the water calm. The ships are in good order and the men in good cheer. Nothing do I see that should stay my hand." 

"All this is true," Beringol replied. "Yet no Man is master of the Sea. Some luck or favour you have, but the Powers are fickle, and none more so than Ossë. I fear that you depend too much on his goodwill. To win the day, but lose the fleet-that would be no victory." 

"It is the Sea you fear then?" 

"The Sea and the Skies, and all those things independent of men's hearts. For those you see better than I. But if the fog lifts at the wrong time, or the Sea impedes our progress, our cover is blown. And even if we are successful, the battle will weaken men and ships both, and even a meager storm might ruin us upon the cliffs." Beringol picked up his own stick to nudge the logs around. "You say that you rely upon my sea-judgment, and then you set sail not three months into the year! Mark me, Captain, I have never seen such a calm spell in Nínui. It cannot last. And when the weather turns, what will we do?" 

"What mariners have ever done: find shelter and make the best of it." 

"And when the Umbarrim rally against us? When fire arrows rain down on us and swordsmen fight their way onto our ships? What will we do?" 

"We will wreck such damage on Umbar as they have not suffered in a thousand years. Then we will withdraw." Then he added: "And make the best of it." 

"I do not understand, Captain. The old blood is failing. The shadow in the East is sucking us dry. The age of heroes is over. But you-we fight like cornered dogs, desperate to keep our enemies at bay, brooding over the few hours that remain to us. Our youth passes, and with it go all thoughts of victory. 

"But you wade out amongst our foes, and call, 'The sun is rising!' Far aloft a star glimmers in the dawn. Forgetting ourselves, we follow you. But it will be our doom, Captain, and yours. For the shadow is greater than either of these, and a day will come when it blots out all the sky. Then what will we do? O my friend, _what is it that makes you so certain_?" 

"That poem you wrote-repeat it to me," Aragorn said quietly. 

With a doubtful look, Beringol complied. 

"That is what makes me certain." 

"Love?" 

Aragorn shook his head. "_Estel._" 

"Thorongil!" a voice shouted from behind Beringol. "Captain Thorongil!" It was Imrahil; and here were the other ship captains, Aragorn saw, come to take counsel with him. They would have to finish this conversation later. He gathered his papers up and stood. 

"This will be a long night. Get some sleep, and come to me in the morning." 

"Aye sir," he said. 

"And Beringol?" He smiled at him. "It is a good poem. She will like it." 

"Thank-you, Captain." 

Aragorn went to welcome the Captains and invite them into his tent. It was much too small, but they squeezed onto benches and camp stools, and got enough lamps lit to see each other's faces. 

"Lords, Captains," Aragorn said, "thank-you for coming. We are now four days from Umbar, and it is needful now that I reveal my plan to you." 

"We know the plan," Valandur said. 

"You know some of it," he corrected. "We have come well-equipped. We have mangonels and ballistae, pikemen and swordsmen and bowmen." 

"Aye! And we'll set half the city alight, ne'er you fear!" boasted Anardil. 

Imrahil clasped his cousin's shoulder. "All of it, if I have any say!" 

Ostoher had a patient smile, but the others looked less convinced. Verion shifted nervously on his rickety cap stool, and Valandur was scowling. 

"Just say it," said Valandur. "What mad plan have you got this time?" 

Aragorn tried to ignore him. "The city is not our object. We could burn it to the ground, but if their ships and shipyards are left intact, we have failed. We do not have men or time to waste. We must know precisely where our targets are, and where their defenses are weakest, before we make our attack-for which, I remind you, we shall have only the light of the moon to guide us. 

There was muttering amongst the Captains. 

"You make our chances sound dim," said Golasgil. "The moon is full in but five days. How can we possibly acquire this information?" 

"It cannot be done," said Valandur. "Thorongil has admitted it before." 

"Yet he must have a plan," said Ostoher, "that will net this for us." 

"And so I do," Aragorn said. "I have admitted only that we cannot from Gondor obtain timely intelligence. From here, it is another matter. Here is what is desired: to get several men into Umbar, so that they may observe such things as we wish to know, and back out again-without, of course, arousing their suspicion." 

"But how may this be done?" Asked Imrahil. "Are you certain we shouldn't just set everything on fire?" 

"Very certain, my young prince. Here is my plan: we shall send the _Balhorn_ into Umbar. While Valandur keeps them distracted, some of us, disguised as ordinary seamen, shall scout out the shipyards. Then we will reconvene with the fleet, and attack while our knowledge is fresh." 

"This was not the plan," said Valandur. His fists were clenched rather menacingly. 

"It is but a small change. What campaign does not include scouting missions?" 

"I will go, Thorongil," said Imrahil. "I could do it just as well as he!" 

"Nay, Imrahil, I shall need you here," he said. "Valandur, I know you doubt me, but think what we shall gain if it works. Um-gîrtab shall take you seriously. He will never expect that it is a ruse." 

"Valandur the Duplicitous. The name I always wanted." 

Ostoher chuckled. "You _are_ ill-tempered this eve, Valandur. Are you quite well?" 

"I am fine!" he snapped. "But the closer we get to Umbar, the more crazy I think I was to go along with this. And his plan is flawed: I cannot just sail in one morning and sail out the same night. They _will_ be suspicious." 

"Then let me go with you, my lord," said Turagar, who had be quiet thus far. "My name is known there. They will not question me risking the sea so early. They will just think me greedy for profits." 

"That is true," said Aragorn. "Very well, the two of you shall go. Perhaps, Turagar, if you remain, they will be less suspicious when Lord Valandur departs." 

Valandur still looked dubious. "Perhaps that would work. But I still do not see how I may get in and out of the city so quickly." 

"Well," said Ostoher, "could you not propose a fantastical scheme, and take offense when they deny you? Then you would have an excuse..." Here Ostoher had to break off, for a sudden fit of coughing overwhelmed him. Aragorn sent a ship-boy to fetch water. 

"I am sorry," he said, when he could breathe right again, "I was saying that it would give you an excuse to go quickly." 

Frustration seemed to have faded to resignation. "What sort of scheme?" Valandur asked bleakly. 

"Fantastical ideas are the domain of the young." Ostoher replied. "Perhaps we should ask the young lords of Belfalas." 

Imrahil conferred for a moment with his cousins Anardil and Alcarin. "We shall think up something very clever," he promised. "But Thorongil, may I not at least go as an observer?" 

"I think not, Imrahil; you have been in Umbar before, and might be recognized." 

"I could disguise myself. Dol Amroth should not be left out of this." 

Aragorn considered this. "I shall take Anardil then, and he may give you a good report." Imrahil looked disappointed, but gave a nod. "Two more I need. Isolad, you have a sharp eye-will you come?" 

"Of course," he replied. 

"I will come also," said Golasgil. "I may look the sailor's part, when there is need." 

"It is settled, then. Young prince, I do have a task for you. The fleet shall be in your charge while I am gone." 

Imrahil looked pleased. "I will not fail you." 

"Then this meeting is adjourned." 

Aragorn followed the last of them into the night. The winter sky was like black velvet, rich and dark, and the pale light of the moon did little to illuminate it. Overhead the bright stars of Elbereth sparkled, and luminous beyond all others soared Eärendil, a bright beacon even far from the lands of his birth. Wherever his journeys took him, ever did Eärendil shine overhead, and by its light he was much eased of mind. 

"Do I choose the right course, far-father?" he whispered into the night. "Ever did the sea call you, and beckon you to your destiny, but I have no such guide." 

He had been long in the southlands now, long away from his people. He had now dwelt longer amongst the Gondorrim than he had the Dúnedain! He would return a stranger again. They might accept his strange fate, his strange destiny, but they did not understand it. He did not belong to them wholly, and larger purposes drove him ever forth. The letter had demanded nothing. But he felt in his heart that he had been away too long, that absence had turned to neglect, and that it was time to assume fully the mantle of his responsibilities in the North. 

_Aragorn_. He tasted it with his tongue. _Estel_. They were like old boots. It would be strange to wear them again, but soon he would remember how they fit him. They would be comfortable again, and he would wonder why he had ever taken them off. 

Giving in to Denethor had been painful. But perhaps it was for the best. Yes. This one last campaign he would undertake for Gondor, and then he must go. 

_Author's Notes_

Ossë: The Maiar vassal of Ulmo tasked with the keeping of the Inner Seas. The Númenoréans seem to have used their Quenya names; I've gone along with this for the Gondorrim, also because there are three possible Sindarin equivalents for Ossë, Aeros, Yssion, and Gaerys, and I'm not sure which would be most appropriate. (Canon) 

"...in a thousand years": Actually eleven hundred & seventy. The last recorded campaign of Gondor against Umbar was in 1810. King Telumehtar Umbardacil gained the city, but lost it within fifty years to the Haradrim. (Canon)   
The Ships:  
_From Harlond_  
Nimchathol ("white blade") -Cptn "Thorongil"  
Ithilcair ("moonship") -Cptn Niomir  
_From Pelargir _  
Balhorn ("impelled by the Valar") -Lord Valandur  
Aerandir ("sea wanderer") â€"Master Turagar  
Pendrath ("passage") -Cptn LÃ³miol  
_From Dor-en-Ernil_  
Sûlion ("wind's son") -Lord Isolad (son of Lord Amálith)  
_From Dol Amroth_  
Alphion ("swan's son") -Prince Imrahil  
Feredir ("hunter") -Lord Alcarin  
Beleghir ("mighty lord") -Lord Anardil  
_From Tolfalas_  
Carmagor ("red swordsman") -Lord Ostoher  
_From Andrast_  
Hwindros ("whirling foam") -Lord Verion  
_From Anfalas_  
Turandir ("powerful wanderer") -Lord Golasgil

Indicates canon characters.

_I'd like to thank CapriceAnn, grumpy, sielge, Athelassa, & viggomaniac on and Raksha the Demon & Astara on HASA for their reviews. You swell my heart! The advice was deeply considered, and the encouragement means a new chapter quicker. Unfortunately, the next chapter is still just a bunch of white space. It's going to be about two weeks before I update. But don't wander off too farâ€"Umbar is dangerous place, as Aragorn is about to find out..._

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, and the characters, settings, places and languages, save those that are original to me, belong to the Tolkien Estate.


	4. Deception

_Umbar, 24 Nínui (February), 2980_

The fog lay so thickly when Aragorn awoke that he thought there was no choice but to delay for a day. Beringol had listened very patiently to his grumbling all through breakfast before remarking that Estelon could probably sail safely through fog twice as thick, and that if he didn't hurry the Balhorn might leave without him.

He had rowed over and, sure enough, Estelon was preparing to raise anchor. But Valandur had a dubious look on his face, so Aragorn didn't feel quite as foolish. They had anchored in a small and secluded inlet, as close to the black cliffs as they dared. In this fog there was little danger of discovery, but he worried nonetheless as the Balhorn and the Aerandir, now stripped of as much weaponry as possible, slowly rowed out into the main body of the firth. Yet he understood, when they had passed the cliffs, why Beringol had been so confident: ahead of them, high in the sky, shone still the twin lights of the harbour towers. So long as they aimed between them, they would come to no harm.

As they drew nigh unto the harbour entrance the dromond went from busy to frenzied; the deck crawled with sailors calling out depth readings and obstacle sightings, and Estelon and his bow-officer were trying to have a disagreement across 140 feet of deck. Aragorn wedged himself in where he could get a good view, daring the seamen to roust him. But the fog was lifting only slowly, and to his disappointment Aragorn could see little of the city and the hills engirding it as they approached.

All he could see, at first, was a pair of towers: one sat at the foot of the hills, squatting almost amongst the waves, while the other was rooted on a mole thrust out from the southern side of the harbour. They were square, and built of red stone, and facing the sea crenellated terraces had been thrust out. They were a little disappointing, Aragorn thought. Though the lights shone far above his head, the towers looked rather squat, and not especially menacing. He had spent more than a year planning his assault on the _Beraid Long_. He wondered now if they were up to the challenge.

But that was a foolish thought, of course. Aragorn picked up a loose rope and started coiling it, trying to look industrious while he scrutinized the harbour that seemed to materialize out of the brume. It was massive, much bigger than it looked on his maps. The quays on his right were crowded with barges, coastal traders, fishing sloops, rowboats, skiffs, and others he could put no name to. The waterfront ran in a great curve out to the mole he had seen before. Every inch of it crawled with sailors and merchants and braying donkeys. The quays were built of wood and a glimmering yellow stone which ran up the stairs to a busy street. Beyond white buildings and earthy red walls and towers seemed to seep out of the fog.

He was beginning to give up hope of seeing the north harbour when the fog suddenly thinned. There was no mass of quays there, nor men, nor buildings. Instead a great bank of shipsheds stretching along the waterline, and on the hills rising above Aragorn could see long, low buildings for keeping stores. A chill swept through him as he counted the tall ships anchored in the water, and the sheds bulging with hulls.

He had been right.

Golasgil came to stand beside him as the ship nudged up against the dock. "Look at those ships–we've nothing to match them. With a fleet like this, they could reduce our coasts to rubble. If I ever doubted you, Thorongil, I am sorry."

"Even I have doubted myself, " he said quietly, "And right now I am wishing I was wrong. There is nothing we can destroy here that they cannot rebuild."

"We do but buy Gondor time," he agreed. "We all know this. But Andrast will be safe for a little while longer. That is all a lord can do."

"And you will make a fine one, like your father. But the fog is lifting, and now we must carry out our plan."

"I will learn all that I can. Good luck, 'Halven'."

"You too, 'Sarnas'," he replied. Aragorn could see the whole city now, or most of it, but he tried to put it out of his mind; he needed to concentrate on the mission.

At the stern Valandur was preparing to depart, and Turagar was already making his way onto the quay. No doubt the Umbarrim were befuddled by their arrival and scrambling to prepare a welcome, Aragorn thought. He had neatly maneuvered the two men he wanted here. Pelargir was about the only port in Gondor still open to Umbar's ships. When her most powerful lord and her richest merchantman suddenly sail up together, the scent of opportunity just might disguise certain…irregularities. Or so he was betting. Though what they would make of Imrahil's proposition, he had no idea.

Before long an armoured man appeared on the pier, followed by an array of warriors and men dressed in long robes. He was tall for a southerner, vigorous but not young, with short black hair; and Aragorn guessed that this was Um-gîrtab himself. His voice was low and guttural, and when he walked up the gangway Aragorn got a glimpse of grim brown eyes entrenched over a short crooked nose.

Shortly after Valandur greeted him and was escorted off the ship the fog wavered, split, and was gone. Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed Golasgil and Isolad and stepped off the ship, leaving Anardil to take notes from ship-board. It would have been safer, of course, if they could all have stayed on the ship; but they needed to confirm where all the shipyards were, as well as identify all the ships they needed to destroy.

ooo

As he and Isolad walked north along the great curve of the harbour Aragorn eyes alighted on various landmarks, matching them to the map in his mind. Umbar was now a composite city. The old city, with its golden walls and towers and brilliant turquoise domes, was mostly abandoned now. Ceaseless wars had worn it into ruin, and the Haradrim had been unable to keep the old harbour from silting up. He could see some of the ruined towers still, perched on the line of hills behind the north harbour. But its legacy was all around him, for the quays and walls had been built of the salvaged stone.

The newest walls and towers were red, like the Beraid Long, and square instead of rounded. The inner walls started at the mole, and ran south beyond his sight, before turning up the slope to crest the ridge of hills that ran along the east of the city; then it turned and split through the harbour, dividing the new city from the sprawling and irregular middle city that encased the north end of the harbour. He couldn't see it from the street, but he knew that on the other side of the ridge lay the old harbour and original city, and that the original, massive, outer walls that the Númenoréans had built more than three thousand years ago still enclosed the entirety of the havens.

He and Isolad soon passed through Watergate and into the middle city. On the left ran the quays, visible only as breaks in the low wall where stairs led downwards, but marked with the cranes perched along the wall to hoist cargo. The streets became a little louder and rougher; glutted not just with sailors and guardsmen and citizens, but with mercenaries carrying wickedly-curved blades and scowls or shifty eyes, dirty beggars who grasped at robes of passers-by, and vociferous merchants hawking street food from panniers they carried across their shoulders or hauled around on woeful-looking donkeys.

Though some of the smells he remembered from the markets in Pelargir and Dol Amroth, most were wholly exotic to him. He tried to focus on watching the harbour, but it had been a long time since breakfast. Isolad raised an eyebrow when he stopped, but he bought some too­–rice with a spicy meat stew. After several days of cold food his tongue was glad for the challenge.

"I didn't come to Umbar to eat street food," said Isolad.

"We're blending in," Aragorn replied. "Just eat."

So far they had indeed accomplished little, but as they continued along the street the merchant docks began to fade out, and Aragorn went over to the wall. These were what Aragorn had been seeking: the tall ships that he and Golasgil had remarked over that morning.

There were about sixteen scattered along the quays. They varied a bit in size, but all were larger than a _gwael_, which was the largest sailing ship that the Gondorrim built. They had three masts, of which the middle was the largest, and the front two were rigged for square sails; and they were deep-draughted, made for ocean sailing. At the bow and stern castles had been erected, perhaps to shelter their bowman. Their appearance was formidable, to say the least, and they fit the description of the ships that had been harassing the Langstrand. He slipped down the stairs to get a closer look. He was half-way there before Isolad cried out to wait for him.

"Stay there," called Aragorn. "I won't be a minute."

These lines, these riggings­–he was not an expert on seacraft, but he did know something of their history, for he had grown up surrounded by ancient scrolls and texts. Middle-earth had seen ships like these before, and some, indeed, which were much greater; but that lore had been forgotten. That the Umbarrim were rediscovering it was very troubling. For though it might be of independent origin, he feared now that Sauron, or one of his lieutenants, was disseminating some ancient knowledge, the better to dog Gondor's heels.

Indeed, while the construction wasn't precisely shoddy, the vessels were plain and without ornament. The Gondorrim always carved their ships elaborately, and he had seen fishing boats with more care lavished on them than these. These were ships without souls, turned out by unloving hands; or perhaps the shipwrights had known that their children were to linger only briefly in this world.

"Halven! Halven!" Dimly he heard Isolad calling for some one. With a jolt he realized he was calling for him. He looked up and saw that Isolad was surrounded by three Haradrim sailors. He cursed and jogged back down the quay and up the stairs. He put on his best "annoyed" look, and summoned his best Pelargir wharf-rat accent.

"Edwen, what did ye do? What did he do?" He asked the men. "I swears, Edwen, you're more trouble than a mouse in a larder. I shoulda left you a' coiling ropes all day 'stead of bringing you along."

"Who are you?" scowled the tallest of the sailors. An old scar slanted down his right cheek, and he had the hard, dark eyes of the desert.

"Halven," he said, "Halven of Pelargir. Off the Balhorn."

"This man of yours," he said, shaking Isolad quite hard, and nearly lifting him off the ground, "was drawing pictures of our ships. An' we don't like spies."

"Spying? Lemme see that." He took the scrap of paper. Isolad had indeed been sketching the ships with charcoal. It might have proved useful, but it was a stupid risk. "This is terrible," he said. "My mamma's dog could do better."

The second man barked a laugh at this. He wiped a stray slash of green sauce off his clean-shaven jaw with his sleeve and gave a shrug.

Aragorn leaned in a little closer. "Look," he said to the men, with a bit of a goofy smile. "My ship-mate ain't a spy, he's just stupid. Get's distracted, like. That's why he can't be trusted to do errands alone. Now I'm just a sailor. I only know 'bout ships, and not politics. But we was rousted for this trip so as my lord and yours could make some deal, e'en though it's still winter, leastways it is up north, no time to be sailin'. Now if you drag us in for a bit of paper, maybe we all get in trouble for upsettin' them."

The third man shifted uncomfortably. He was fairer of skin and hair than his companions. There was a dagger tucked in the sash at his waste, but he stood with the hunch of a man who doesn't know where a whip might come from next. Aragorn drew a hand across his throat, and lowered his voice. "Maybe we lose our heads, e'en, if they get's real mad. Ain't nothin' gets them folk touchier than honour, you know? We're all sailors here. Why should we be fightin'?

"My purse is heavy with coin, so as we could buy supplies. But whatcha say we spend it on somethin' more tasty than salt fish? There must be a tavern here where some seaboys could getta drink."

The man with the grip on Isolad still looked uncertain, but Aragorn thought he was winning the other two. "Say, is that your ship down there? The handsome yellow, with the long bowsprit?" He pointed to the second largest of the ships, one of the vessels he had been admiring earlier.

"Yes," said the second of them, "that be our _Na-baga_–in this speech, _Sea-crown_, you call her. You like her?"

"Like 'er? Nothin' like that at home! Must be a howl runnin' in the wind, six knots I bet she does."

"Seven," said the second man. "Come, Gab-diriga, Dusa, they do not mean harm. I am Igi-dagal. Let's get some rum. You like rum?"

"Nothin' better," Aragorn replied.

The tall man, who must be Gab-diriga, released Isolad, who sighed in relief. "Rum is good," he grunted, and the pale man fingered his dagger and then nodded.

ooo

And so Aragorn found himself downing rum before the sun was midway in her tracks, in a tavern that smelled like fish and sweat and stale drinks, learning the finer points of the new ships of Umbar. Isolad was still looking a bit queasy, and mostly kept silent. By the time they'd finished off the keg the slightly tipsy sailors were now slightly tipsy friends, and offering to show him around the port. He sent Isolad off to "fetch those supplies," and availed himself of his new tour guides.

The afternoon went better than he could have hoped. Igi-dagal and his friends were not fools, and Aragorn was careful with his questions, but they boasted proudly of the _Sea-crown's_ speed and handiness, and took him up to the middle city. All the best sailor's taverns were there, Dusa said, and tried his best to lead him to every one of them. After a while Aragorn claimed defeat, and staggered down to a nearby pier to empty his stomach in the muddy water. He had not drunk that much in several years, and looked it; but it had been less than it seemed to Igi-dagal and Dusa and Gab-diriga, for Aragorn was canny even in his drinking.

They lay awhile on the pier (which was really just a small dock, once his head stopped spinning) and Aragorn took the opportunity to make a good reconnaissance of the ship-sheds. By the time they parted company in the late afternoon, following another round at the taverns, he thought he could sketch out where all the ships to hit were, and he'd gotten a good look at the northern tower.

Aragorn wished he had time to tarry as he strolled back up the street that Isolad and he had come down that morning, for he had much to think upon. The_ Sea-crown_ was still where it had been that morning. Everything had happened a little too easily today. He wondered at Igi-dagal and his ship-mates, Dusa and Gab-diriga. Did they really believe him, and think there was a chance for peace? Or did they know the inevitability of war, and think the joke was on him?

Well, it would be the other way around. Before the sun rose the _Sea-crown_ would be ablaze, and they might well be dead. _Better dead, perhaps_, he thought. _Before they could realize their mistake._

It was just the booze that was affecting him, no doubt. He had come seeking a nasty and perilous foe to grapple with and beat down for no prize but a brief peace for Gondor. It was to be cool and calculated, without the mess of ambition and pride and history that had weighted down Gondor's previous attacks. But now a strange elation seemed to overtake him, as the snapping sea wind, rimy with salt, tugged at his jersey and hat and the bare skin of his cheeks as it rippled inland. When he breathed in it was like he breathed in all of Umbar in with it; and it filled him, all these ancient towers and fallen fortresses and moss-eaten walls, all the ships and quays that danced with the sea, and the great city that rose behind them, leaning and groping for the red walls and towers it sheltered behind; the walls, maybe, that held the desert out.

_Get a grip on yourself. _He tried to calm his mind with all the tricks learned over long years, to stem the tide of emotion and to separate himself from things that must remain in the past, or go unrealized. But Umbar nagged at him still, and as he passed through the Watergate he leaned against it for a moment, running his hand over the rough stone arch. He felt every point of it against his hand, in that moment, and the tremble that swept him had nothing to do with the coolness of the wall.

Had he been deceiving himself, all along, to think that he could leave now?

ooo

Isolad approached him as soon as he returned to the ship. His brow was furrowed, and the other sailors seemed to be keeping their distance.

"You are finally back," he said. "I have been worrying all afternoon."

"Were you too busy worrying to get your job done?" Aragorn said moodily.

"Of course not," he snapped. "I wrangled a good look at the shipyards. I've never seen any of that size before. But most of them are not in use right now. Either they've finished their work, or they're waiting on something."

Aragorn nodded in acknowledgment and turned away to the rail to watch for Valandur.

"Is that all?" Isolad said. "Did you get a good look at the shipsheds, or were you too busy drinking with your new Haradrim friends?"

"I got a good look, no thanks to you," he replied. "What were you thinking, sketching a picture in the middle of the street?"

"I wasn't in the middle, I was at the side. And it would have been useful if you hadn't tossed it away."

"It was dangerous. You are lucky I was there and smoothed things over. If you'd been dragged in for questioning, the whole operation might have been in jeopardy. You do know what "disguise" means."

"Of course! But we are not all so practiced at deception as you are, Thorongil. Agh. I give up." He stalked off and left Aragorn in peace.

That one had been a mistake, he thought. Not like his father at all–he had a keen eye, true, but he was no good at thinking on his feet. Golasgil, he hoped, had done better. More alike Aragorn, he was, ready to move with change instead of dragging his feet. He _had_ enjoyed the role-play that afternoon, once the immediate danger had passed–well, maybe he had enjoyed all of it.

But Isolad was like Denethor: bull-headed when it was time for action. A good man for guarding your back, but unequipped for the unexpected. And what was the history of Gondor come to, but falling back? The heartland remained, and Denethor and Isolad and their ilk might long defend it, but Umbar had been lost, and all the southlands; Calenardhon had been given up; Ithilien was only a haunt for orcs, and barely held at that; and the great domes and spires of Osgiliath lay fallen to their knees, or tumbled in the muddy bed of the Anduin.

Denethor, for all his diplomatic deftness, could never have brought the Council together on this, or even conceived such a plan; nor would he ever have dared to carry it out. If he left now, Aragorn thought, who might set things right again?

His ruminating was interrupted by the return of Valandur, who swayed pompously up the ramp, trailed by several harried-looking Haradrim officials. He dismissed them imperiously and bellowed a few commands before stalking up beside Aragorn.

"How did it go?" Isolad asked, trailing after him, with Golasgil close behind.

"I played it as straight as I could," Valandur said. "But they must think me half crazy."

Aragorn wasn't paying much attention. He had looked for it all afternoon, but now the clouds had been shoved aside and he could see it presiding high above the city. Only a stout watchtower stood on the heights now, but once a great monument had risen from it, which they say could be seen even from the coasts of Gondor. Here Sauron had been humbled by the might of Men.

_By Ar-Pharazôn, you fool. _And yet–was he not Isildur's heir, the last of Elendil's proud line? If he had not the courage to spit in Sauron's face, and deny him for once the prize he coveted, who would? The thought worried at his mind like a hungry dog. So close to so much, all his decisions had a faint whiff of defeat. This city he had never wanted, dressed in gold and turquoise and stammel, taunted him through the alleys of his mind, and the sunset was tinted with shades of consonance as Aragorn grasped, for the first time, what had driven so many men to stain the walls of the Havens with their blood.

The sun was but a shimmer in the west when they rounded the cliffs and came on the fleet hidden below. The other captains had left him alone at the stern to watch Umbar fade from view, seemingly unaffected by their brief brush with the city, but they joined him now as the _Alphion_ lowered her tender and Imrahil came over.

"Everything has been quiet here," reported Imrahil. "We have men up on the bluffs keeping a look-out. But no-one has come near. How did the scouting go?"

"Well enough," said Valandur, "at least on my end. I think they bought it, absurdly enough."

Imrahil grinned. "And Turagar?"

"He stayed to smooth things over," Anardil said.

"He and his men will be ready," Valandur added.

"I checked out the river, but there was no sign of ship-building there," reported Golasgil. "If there is another yard, it is a long way off. But I got a good look at the south tower and the ships anchored there."

"I scouted the ship-yards," Isolad said. "Beyond that, you will have to ask Thorongil."

"I saw what I desired to see," Aragorn said after a moment.

"Well," said Imrahil, "it is a success then. The details you can give us later. But what are we to do now, Thorongil? Do we attack or not?"

The gathered captains looked at him expectantly.

"We will attack tonight."

_What was one more deception?_

ooo

_Author's Notes:_

Ma-sua ("deep-draughted boat"): An Umbarrim name for their new three-masted sailing ships.

_New characters:_

Estelon: Sailing Master of Valandur's _Balhorn_.

Gab-diriga ("enormous strength"): Sailor from the _Sea-crown_.

Igi-dagal ("wide-seeing eyes"): Sailor from the _Sea-crown_.

Dusa ("companion"): Sailor from the _Sea-crown_.

_I've opted to represent the speech of Umbar as a sort of pidgin Sumerian. I hope it is exotic without being distracting._

My thanks to everyone who has reviewed-sorry it took me so long to get this chapter finished! The penultimate chapter, _Battles_, will hopefully be out in early July.


	5. Battles

**Chapter 5: Battles**

_The Firth of Umbar, 25 Nínui (February), 2980_

The sails lay bound upon the deck, and in the inky darkness the only sounds were the crash of the waves upon the bow; the sliding rush of the oars as they parted the waters; and the faint, repetitive chink of stone that kept the oarsmen rowing as one. Overhead the stars shone clear and bright, unveiled by mist or cloud, and off the bow Aragorn could see clearly _Quáco_, riding on the back of _Nénlókë_ as he twisted through the southern sky.

Slowly, patiently, they crept up behind the hills, and when they drew abreast of the old harbour, now naught but a ghost town of pale yellow spires, Aragorn left his watchful post upon the prow and retreated to the aft deck. He exchanged his spray-soaked cloak for a dry one and went to stand beside Beringol.

"How does she go?" He asked softly.

"Quiet," his sailing master whispered back to him, equally captive to the still night air. To his port, closest to the rocks, hung Valandur's _Balhorn_, and in her wake rowed Imrahil's _Alphion_ and the two smaller Dol Amroth ships, the _Feredir_ and _Beleghir_. To starboard slinked Ostoher's massive _Carmagor_, followed by their two smallest taur, the _Sûlion_ and _Pendrath_, and by the _Ithilcair_, _Hwindros_ and _Turandir_. Ten proud ships-of-the-line, each armed with at least one catapult and with decks massed with archers and men-at-arms. He hoped it would be enough.

Like hungry lions they stalked closer to their prey, crouched close to the dark waters, moving with patience and menace. They were almost upon the North tower, skirting the mole that stepped down from the hills, when the first shouts went up from the fortress, like the flurried panic of a herd astonished at the sudden appearance of their hunters. 

The fleet was well prepared. His men backed oars and held the _Nimchathol_ where she would have a good shot at the tower, and the _Alphion_ and _Balhorn_ did likewise. _Ostoher_ and _Isolad_ brought their own taur to bear on the south tower. The mangonels had been loaded with cemented brick and the first shots slung off the ships before the defensive force could take aim. As they struck the terraces where Umbar's own catapults and ballistae stood, Aragorn heard in his mind the split of timber and crush of iron that the boulders, breaking on impact, had inflicted. The true noise was out bested by the swoosh of oars as the remaining six ships of Aragorn's fleet slipped swiftly through the gap and into the harbour. The catapult crews worked rapidly to prepare the next attack, while each ship was carefully maneuvered for an optimal shot. The _Nimchathol _ was just inside the harbour now, and Aragorn saw, near the docks that _Balhorn_ and _Aerandir_ had put in yesterday, a burst of flame. 

The attack had been as unexpected as he hoped, that was clear! 

The ship rocked violently as a boulder crashed down between the _Nimchathol_ and the _Sûlion_, but neither ship took great damage. He shouted at his boatswain to raise the next signal, and told Beringol to push the ship further into the harbour. The _Alphion_ and _Sûlion_ did likewise, leaving the _Balhorn_ and _Carmagor_ to torment the _Beraid Long_. Both were armed with the heaviest boulders they could take on board, which they hoped would give them a shot at punching holes in the towers themselves once the ramparts were clear. 

The sprightly _Alphion_ shot ahead of them as Imrahil bounded into the fray at the shipsheds. The other two ships from Belfalas, the _Feredir_ and _Beleghir_, had already begun to lob at them clay vessels filled with pitch and other noxious substances. Their archers, sheltered by constructions at the bow and stern, had begun to alight their arrows and send them whizzing through the sea-ward openings, hoping to catch the grounded hulls afire. 

In the distance he could hear the cries of the Umbarrim as their enemies descended upon them. _'Izi, izi,' _they cried, _'Kar-kar bil! Ma bil!' _ The pools of lantern light began to merge with the grasping flames. _Fire, fire! The harbour is burning! The ships are burning!_ Yes; yes indeed. It would all be aflame soon, if they had their way. 

_'Ugula-uru me-am?'_ they cried. _ 'Ugula-uru me-am?'_

He had intended to aid Imrahil, but two dark figures broke off from the small quay that ran between the shipsheds and the north tower: Two corsair galleys, much alike the _Nimchathol_, though somewhat smaller, and akin to the pirate ships he had fought last fall. 

"Beringol?" 

"Patrol ships. They probably have a full complement of slave-rowers." 

"Can we perform a pass-through, and turn in time to face the second?" 

"If they continue abreast, I think so." 

"Then let's do it. " Aragorn ordered the archers at the stern to concentrate on the starboard ship, and then hurried up the forward deck. The catapult crew had taken aim at their new target, but the stone sank into the harbour just short of the corsair ship to port. The _Nimchathol_ swung tightly around to face their new opponents, and sprang forward with a rush as the oarsmen rowed at their utmost speed. 

"Hold tight!" shouted Aragorn to his archers, who had been exchanging arrows with the ship to port, as the oarsmen nimbly swung the ship forty-five degrees to port and brought the ship's ram crashing through the oar bank of the corsair ship. They cleared perhaps four-fifths of the enemies oars before they drifted too far off. 

They had caught the first ship by surprise, and she was out of the fight, limping back to the docks, barely able to move with nearly half her oars gone. But the _Nimchathol_ was now in an awkward position, her momentum carrying her starboard side toward the rocks at the edge of the bay, and her catapult and archers in no position to oppose the second ship. 

In the dim light Aragorn could just make out the pirate galley as she turned on her haunches and came full speed toward his ship, aiming to puncture the _taur_'s broad side and push them onto the rocks. But Beringol was prepared. Groaning the ship's nose swung back into the harbour, and the drummer sped up again as the oarsmen strained to give the ship enough speed to meet the massive iron ram that was bearing down on them. The two ships collided, the corsair ship's ram smacking into the plates that attached the _Nimchathol_'s ram to the ship's beams. Though the ship groaned at the impact, the metal had kept her from being holed. 

Before the corsair ship could break away Aragorn shouted at his men to throw the grappling hooks and prepare to board. Beringol edged the two ships together, the oarsmen shipping their oars just in time to avoid breaking them against the other ship's hull. Aragorn wished he could lead the boarding party himself, but knew their situation was still too tenuous to risk it, and sent his lieutenant instead. The corsairs, oblivious to the planned raid, had only a part of their men onboard, and the ship was soon overrun. 

Soon his soldiers were crossing back over, escorting three Gondorian prisoners they had found in the hold. Aragorn spoke briefly with one of the other slaves, a tall dark-skinned man with a proud bearing; he agreed to spare the ship so that the slaves might escape in it, so long as they promised not to let it fall back into the corsair's hands. It was not an ideal choice, but the _Nimchathol_ had not the space to rescue them herself, and Aragorn would not leave them to drown or be caught again trying to escape the city. 

He had too much else to worry about. With this threat faced down, and the other ships moored nearby set alight, Aragorn could turn to examine the state of the fight. The _Balhorn_ and _Carmagor_ were still lobbing rocks at the _Beraid Long_. Past the _Carmagor_ he could see the _Hwindros_, attacking the ships moored against the southern mole. 

The _Ithilcair_ and _Turandir_ he had sent to Turagar's aid, and they had set to burning the new ships-_ma-sua_, they had called them-that Aragorn had seen yesterday afternoon. Isolad's _Sûlion_ and the _Pendrath_ set upon the shipyards in the north-east corner of the harbour. The Dol Amroth fleet were still assaulting the ship-sheds. 

At first the Gondorian ships, aided by their exacting knowledge of where everything they wanted to hit was, had made fairly easy work of the grounded Umbarrim ships. But as more sailors and warriors stumbled down to the quay front the battle intensified. Leaving Valandur to keep the tower busy he ordered the _Nimchathol_ closer to the ship-sheds. 

Aragorn had known after his tour that these would be the hardest to eliminate, for the slips were made mostly of stone. Once set on fire the ships inside burned mightily, but most had to be set alight individually, for the builders, anticipating this weakness, had built solid stone partitions at regular intervals; and some were of fine masonry indeed, built by Castamir's sons, or by Hyarmendacil II. The _Alphion, Feredir_ and _Beleghir_ had set the westernmost sheds afire and then pulled in close to land squads of marines near the center, who had sortied up the hill far enough to set fire to some of the ship's stores and armouries. While the _Feredir _and _Beleghir _backed off to bring their heavier weaponry into play, the _Alphion_ was under attack where it stood at a small quay, awaiting the marines return. 

Seeing her in this plight, Aragorn ordered his ship there as well. He had his own contingent of soldiers, and left Beringol in charge while he led them onto the dock. 

"Imrahil!" he called. The younger lord turned and grinned briefly at him, clearly glad for aid. They held the quay and a bit of ground, but the air was swiftly filling with such smoke and ash that they could hardly see the streets rising up the hillside in front of them. A mass of mercenaries in various states of dress and sobriety had already gathered, armed with swords or short-bows or just with hastily improvised clubs. 

Heckling on the growing crowd was a thickset corsair of rich dress, waving his sword in the air and shouting _'Genu-u! Genu-u! Ma-ma uru-u!' _ Others had taken up his cry behind the screen of smoke, and more and more men rallied to their cry. It was all close and messy work, for all the bows had fallen silent, their wielders unable to see clearly enough to shoot. The larger battle was lost to him for awhile as they held a small breathing space together amid the conflagration of their own creation. His throat burned as he shouted orders to his men, who were struggling to hold the shield-wall tight against the crowd. 

At last Aragorn saw the skirmishers beating their way back through the mob. The Gondorian soldiers, wielding their ovoid shields and long pikes ruthlessly, redoubled their efforts to press the angry natives aside. In the middle Imrahil had rallied his swordsmen and was cutting through the crowd. Aragorn grabbed his lieutenant and turned the line over to him, and then followed the young prince, leaving his bodyguard scrambling to catch up with him. 

Block, thrust, parry, riposte. Slit a throat, hack off an arm, send entrails slithering to the ground. There was no pleasure in this work but there was pride. From the crush of forces vinaceous rivulets dripped into the salty waters. Most of it was their unready foes'. Block, thrust, parry, riposte. Most of their foes were unarmoured, and Aragorn's long blade made quick work of them. But in the wild melee the fight had degenerated into, a crafty corsair had slipped through their lines and was rounding on Imrahil. He and his bodyguard, oblivious to the danger, were ramming fervently through the crowd in front of them. Aragorn knew (in the way he sometimes did) that the stab of his wicked blade would be true, if he were let to make it. 

Aragorn snatched his dagger smoothly from its sheath and sent it winging into the corsair's back. Imrahil paused from his slaughter when he heard the man grunt as he staggered sideways and slumped to the ground. He must have recognized the eagle-headed pommel, for he yanked it free. He wiped the blood off on the man's shirt before straightening. 

"Thank you," he said, offering it back to Aragorn, who had quickly closed the gap between them. 

"No. Keep it. It has brought me luck; mayhap it shall bring you luck, too." _You will need it_, he thought. 

And then the battle swirled around them again, and they turned back to their grimy work, side by side. 

When at last the two forces had joined up Aragorn ordered a swift retreat, and he practically shoved Imrahil back aboard his own ship. 

It was none too soon. The captain of the tower had finally sent reinforcements, armoured guards with javelins and halberds. The _Nimchathol _and _Alphion_ fled the quay front, glad to escape largely unharmed from a very close encounter. 

"Fall off, Imrahil," he shouted, "but keep the fires going. Be ready to retreat when I give the signal!" 

He turned his attention then to the state of the battle. Both towers were burning. If Valandur and Ostoher were getting bored, they didn't show it; they were still pummeling the towers zealously. The _Hwindros_ had left the moored ships on the south mole in tatters, and had turned to assailing the largest ships at the merchant docks. The battle burned brightest at four o'clock, where the _Turandir_ and _Ithilcair _had joined the _Aerandir _at the docks. Though the Umbarrim had shouted for their captain at the ship-sheds, they had done so in vain; Aragorn thought now he knew why, and ordered Beringol to bring the _Nimchathol _to their compatriot's aid. 

_So we will meet at last, Um-gîrtab._

At the quays where yesterday he had gazed upon the _Sea-crown_ and her fifteen sister ships the battle was far more orderly than it had been to the north, and the Gondorian ships were suffering accordingly. Golasgil's _gwael _had tangled with two ma-sua that had broken from their mooring, and all three were on fire. The _Pendrath _had swooped in to help and was blanketing the two enemy ships with arrows while the _Turandir _wrestled free and tried to put out the fires. That had left only the _Ithilcair _to aid Turagar. 

The _Aerandir_, stripped of her catapult for guile's sake, had only small arms to wreck havoc with; and _Turagar_, after setting alight the ships nearby with fire-arrows, had broken toward the middle city and moored at those quays, where his marines, on loan from Valandur, could make a difference. (He followed orders about "no unnecessary risks" no better than Imrahil.) But the battle was clearly not going his way, for though most of the sixteen ships were on fire, so was the _Aerandir_. The _Ithilcair _was wisely hanging off the shore, using her two small catapults against the ships; but as they drew closer he could see a white flag flying amongst the soldiers on the quay, and he knew that the _Ithilcair_ had let off at least some of her men-at-arms (all sturdy guardsmen Aragorn had pulled from Osgiliath for this mission.) 

There were twelve quays stretched along the waterfront of the middle city; close to Watergate there were some merchant ships that had gone mostly ignored, but at the fourth quay Turagar had drawn up, and the fighting was fierce. Trying to stay out of the way of the burning ships, some of which had started to drift out and south with the mild current, he ordered his ship in at the eighth quay. 

As soon as they were close enough he leapt out, and his men followed speedily, led by his squint-eyed lieutenant, Lóthion. They swept easily aside the few angry sailors desperate to preserve their ships, and flowed up the landing to join the battle. 

_"Mahla-e si-ig-u!" _a man bellowed, his words spat out in a sort of chant._ "Bal halam-u! Bal halam-u!" _ Aragorn looked up to see a tall man highlighted on the ledge of the street perhaps a hundred yards distant; dark-browed, with a short, crooked nose, and a face twisted with rage. Um-gîrtab. Aragorn's grim smile morphed into a pucker as he contemplated the best way to reach him. 

"Sailors, put out the fires! Destroy the enemies! Destroy the enemies!" The Captain of the Havens repeated his rally, as Aragorn signaled to his bodyguard and took off for the stairs. His men already held the landing, and he left enough to defend it while he battered his way toward Um-gîrtab. The man would not live to see the sunrise, if Aragorn could help it. 

It took forever to cross those hundred yards, and no time at all. Near the halfway point they merged briefly with the Ithilcair's marines and then parted again, like two schools of flashing fish that entwine and separate seamlessly. Still Aragorn stalked his prey. The flames and showering sparks lit up the earth and sky, and reflected in the dark waters of the cove, and it was a hundred times more satisfying to his eyes than any fireworks display. 

Then he was there, his momentum carrying him deep into the crowd of soldiers rallying around their Captain, his blade a whirling nightmare. He felt a brief sting as a blade sliced shallowly under his shoulder-guard, but it was no more than a scratch, and he fought on. His men had driven into them with a sharp wedge, yet they struggled to break through, for more re-enforcements were stumbling down the hills. One moment Lóthion had been at his side, his shield wielding off blows for them both, and then next his lieutenant lay gasping on the stones, blood welling up from his abdomen. His men surged forward to surround and protect them, but Aragorn could feel the tide turning against him. With one last glare in the direction of Um-gîrtab, painfully close, and painfully out of reach, Aragorn prepared to order his men back. 

Then something happened which he did not expect. 

From the quays on the other side of Um-gîrtab came a roar like a great wave smashing against a cliff-face. The defenders shuddered as the fresh surge of fighters under the banner of Dor-en-Ernil crashed into the mÃªlée. For a moment Aragorn was too caught in surprise to react. Isolad? 

Then his training took over, and he threw himself back into the fray, beating through the thinning crowd of men, many of whom had turned to face the new threat. His men had regrouped and followed him forward. 

In most battles an enemy is an enemy, and you just kill whomever gets in your way. He had never liked being behind the action, and always led his men himself, when he could. But this was a strange fight, fought in the chaos of a burning port, where smoke drifted helter-skelter across the battlefield, and clusters of men, as often leaderless as not, clashed in a confusion of blood. Aragorn stumbled into an open stretch of street, the body of his last opponents falling with a thud beside him, to find himself not five yards from Um-gîrtab. 

It was like he had wandered into one of the old lays he had spent so many drowsy hours listening to in the Hall of Fire: as if the wreaths of a dragon's smoky breath had parted for them, the two opposing Captains, a wind amid the dust and an iron-crowned tower. And though Aragorn was battle-wearied, yet madness gave him strength, and his hands were steady. 

The Scorpion of Umbar faced him unwaveringly and hefted his gruesome sword. It's edge was level and red with blood; while the upper line of the blade was longer and curved slightly skyward to a point before hooking back down to the edge. In his other hand he carried a round iron buckler. 

"Um-gîrtab." 

"Thorongil." 

They needed no introduction. Aragorn moved first, sweeping in to parry his opponent's first swing, stabbing, blocking, whirling to attack again, using his speed and greater reach to his advantage. They tangled and broke apart, sliced and hacked, grunted under the force of each other's blows. Um-gîrtab clouted Aragorn's hip hard with his shield, but paid for it when Aragorn's caught him off-guard and moved in at half-sword to trap the man's sword-hand. He grunted in pain as he struggled to force Aragorn off him. 

When he finally broke free and they had backed off each other, Um-gîrtab spit out a curse at him, saying_ "Am gal lu sar-re gaza-gin nig-ba-bi gar-ra!" _

_"As dug-ga-gu as nu-mu-un gi," _Aragorn replied, returning not a curse but an old proverb; for everyone knows that cursing is a dangerous business, and the Heir of Isildur must be even more careful than most in such matters. 

Um-gîrtab seemed affronted by his answer, perhaps not expecting that he understood their tongue so well. In any case he did not speak again, but grunted and hefted his sword, preparing for another attack. They struggled there in the street, exchanging stroke for stroke, but at last Aragorn got the upper hand, and his last blow, barely blocked by Um-gîrtab, left a great dent in his buckler. Before Aragorn could recover and strike again the Scorpion retreated backward down the steps to the quay below. Aragorn followed swiftly, pressing him again at the bottom of the staircase. Both were too well-armoured for a slashing blow to do much damage, so it was a dance of lunges and thrusts, like the flickers of a flame. 

Aragorn was drenched with sweat and knew he could not allow this battle to continue much longer. Both weary, they drew back for a moment, each poised at one side of the quay. Above Aragorn loomed the _Sea-crown_, fire scorching up her sides and along her deck. The smoke and heat became more intense with every passing moment. But the battle had moved elsewhere; only the dead and dying littered the stones now. The flames shimmered in their glazy eyes, like some strange reflection of boys gathered around a hearth, watching with fascination their little paper ships crumple and burn. 

Um-gîrtab's eyes shifted. Aragorn blocked his blow easily, then pivoted to drive his blade hard against his opponent's, throwing him off balance. He brought his sword back across and stabbed the inside of his elbow. Um-gîrtab quickly struck out again, but the attack was weak, and Aragorn knew he had wounded his opponent gravely. Um-gîrtab threw down his buckler and switched his sword to his left hand, drawing his dagger with his right. 

The fighting, contested on every side, had found them again, and men poured-not always volitionally-over the walls and down the stairs, blades and clubs swinging through the air. The pair, absorbed in the heat of their hate, ignored them all. 

Aragorn parried Um-gîrtab's strike cleanly and feinted right; but then he swept left instead and brought his sword down hard against his enemy's right hand. The dagger clattered on the stones. He barely got his guard up in time to parry Um-gîrtab's sword as it swung wildly toward his head; with a hand on his blade he stopped the thrust and rammed the hilt of his sword into Um-gîrtab's chest, knocking him backward several feet. 

Many of the combatants had become aware of the fight raging in their midst, and the two sides had begun to take form again, breaking off to regain their breath while the two Captains swung at each other. It was lucky, then, that Um-gîrtab stumbled into his own men, and they blocked Aragorn's move forward to give him time to recover. 

Um-gîrtab thrust them angrily aside and crept toward his opponent once again. Aragorn let him take the initiative, parrying each blow, but driving him subtly into more aggressive plays, judging that he now had the advantage in endurance. Um-gîrtab charged with an overhand cut, but Aragorn anticipated this and redirected his blade past him. Twisting he stabbed his left leg in the path of Um-gîrtab, and threw him to the ground. His sleek blade plunged between the plates of the Scorpion's armour, pinning him to the blood-soaked ground. 

Rising from the broken form of Um-gîrtab, Aragorn saw, in the swirl of the crowd, the wide eyes of Igi-dagal, staring straight at him, before a blade thrust out from his dark abdomen, and he too collapsed upon the quay. Isolad stepped over him and made his way toward Aragorn. With Um-gîrtab dead the defenders were unraveling, fleeing from Aragorn's might up the narrow streets. 

"The _Aerandir _is on fire," said Isolad, by way of greeting. His voice was almost conversational. "And she has a hole in her side. She'll never make it back." 

"And Turagar?" 

"Alive. But you know what that ship means to him." 

"We're done here. Get back to your ship and get his men on board. You can take the lead out." 

Isolad nodded and turned off, yelling to his men to pull back to the ship. Aragorn gathered his own men and those of the Ithilcair as he headed back to the _Nimchathol_. It was slow going, for their were many injured and dead to carry back. The _Pendrath_ was hovering just off the quay, and Lómiol seemed to understand his arm-waving, as he turned about to nose back toward the harbour mouth. 

Beringol grasped his arm fervently and hauled him back on board. They strided to the stern and saw the _Sûlion _back off from the quay and come about. But his face paled when he saw the smoldering _Aerandir _push out into the harbour. 

Aragorn swore. 

"The current will push the ship into the market quays," said Beringol. "He may do a great deal of damage." 

"It isn't worth his life," Aragorn replied firmly. They both knew that Turagar, who had made his fortune by his own toil, would never entrust that mission to another. 

The whole harbour front was in flames, from the shipyards in the north to the merchant docks lining the new city. There was nothing he could do for Turagar now; but Aragorn knew the man would fight to the end.   
How foolish his thoughts had been. It was time to go. He sent Beringol off to order up the signal to withdraw and bring the ship out. Soon the _gwaels_ had drawn up and skipped out through the harbour mouth under the cover of the _taurs_' mangonels, but the Umbarrim paid little heed, too desperate to control the fires to organize a quick pursuit. The _Turandir _was limping, but only the _Aerandir _had been wholly lost; and he knew Gondor would remember this last victory for many years. 

But he wasn't done with Umbar. 

_Author's Notes_

_Quáco_: "the crow", aka Corvus (Quenya) 

_Nénlókë_: "the water serpent", aka Hydra (Quenya) 

_Izi, izi! Kar-kar bil! Ma bil!_: Fire, fire! The harbour is burning! The ships are burning! 

_Ugula-uru me-am?_: Where is the Captain of the Havens? 

_Genu-u! Genu-u! Ma-ma uru-u!_: Come! Come! Guard the ships! 

_Mahla-e si-ig-u!_: Sailors, put out the fires! 

_Bal halam-u!_: Destroy the enemies! 

Um-gîrtab's sword is based on the sword-_dao_ of the hill tribes of the foothills of the eastern Himalayas. It looked suitably nasty. 

_Am gal lu sar-re gaza-gin nig-ba-bi gar-ra_: May you be like a great wild bull killed by many people, to be divided into portions. (Slightly modified from the Sumerian; an (apparently nasty) curse from 'The exploits of Ninurta') 

_As dug-ga-gu as nu-mu-un gi_: I did not answer the curse uttered against me with a curse of my ownâ€¦ (Slightly modified from a Sumerian proverb) 

Inspiration for Aragorn's tactics comes from an attack by the Moors on a naval blockade of Algeciras in 1278. The Moors gathered a fleet at Tangiers of about 74 ships, and then sent a single galley to Algecieras with an embassy. While diplomatic niceties were exchanged, men disguised as ordinary seamen carefully noted the positions of the Christian galleys. Two days later the Moors attacked, destroying almost all of the 104 ships in the harbour. 

Somehow this chapter turned out a lot longer than I expected, with a flurry of different battles, and so became delayed. I am determined to have the final chapter, _Valediction_, up by the end of the month, so stay tuned! 

Addendum: Viggomaniac has asked what a dromond is. A dromond (also dromund, dromon) is a Byzantine war galley. I've used _taur_ ("mighty") for the Gondorian form. "dromond" comes straight out of RotK. Both sides also have smaller galleys. The Gondorian's also have _gwaels_ ("gulls"), which correspond roughly to a caravel. Not directly attested The _ma-sua_ are somewhere between a caravel redunda and a carrack; my best interpretation of "ships of great draught with many oars". Tolkien sprinkled references to ships all through his work, but taken together they seem irreconcilable, and lacking an understanding of actual historical development (yes, very un-Tolkien!) I have a half-finished essay that tries to un-tangle it. It's up on at HASA on the member's side, or I can e-mail it to anyone interested. 

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, and the characters, settings, places and languages, save those that are original to me, belong to the Tolkien Estate.


	6. Valediction

**Chapter 6: Valediction**

_Pelargir, 6 Gwirith (April), 2980_

Aragorn had slept but little since he had retired yester eve. Sleeplessness had given way to restless dreams, and then to numb watchfulness, until finally he had risen and set alight the lamps, interrupting the murky night with their own solemn hue. Endlessly Umbar had come to him, like a melody hovering furtively in the mind, ineluctable and unnerving. His thoughts ran with blood and fire, and he saw Umbar rise and fall a thousand times. At last memory and sight and fantasy blurred beyond his tolerance, and in the blaze of brazier's fire and the lamps he cleared the floor and drew himself into a exacting gyre of muscle, letting the pure physical exertion draw his mind back to its accustomed paths. 

Finally weary and whole he settled down at the oaken desk and opened the window-shutters. Even in the early hours of the morning Pelargir was not wholly silent, and he could hear the snorting breaths of oxen and their creaking cart wheels passing up the street, and the clipping heels of kitchen-maids on the cobblestones taking bread to the bakehouse, or swooshing brooms across the house-steps. 

Some thoughtful maid had clipped a branch of dogwood and laid it in a shallow glass bowl on the desk. The sweet pink flowers rambled delicately from the branch. Running his finger along the stems teased his thoughts towards spring in Rivendell, and the ancient dogwood tree that reclined from the banks of the Bruinen. He had brushed a coral petal from her hair, sleek as a blackbird on the wing, and she had laughed; and they had danced barefoot among the violets, blue and white, that bloomed sweetly there, and rambled amongst the sea of bluebells into the wide meadow beyond. 

Her brothers had been there, and they had passed the afternoon in laughter and cheer, though what they had said he could recall not; only her perfect, pale feet, reclined in the grass beside him, and the dark locks of hair that caressed her breasts and drifted languidly about her hips-O! how jealous he had been of those locks of hair!-and those deep, inscrutable eyes, that saw so much and said so little, and her sweet, unbearably tempting lips. 

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It did not do to think too much on some things. But before she came he had thought Imladris perfect-like a dwarf who has lived his whole life under the dark vault of his mountain home, and who comes for the first time under the night sky, and discovers the stars twinkling far above-so it was, when she came, and his eyes were opened. He held that memory fast to him, a ward against all that afflicted men in this late hour: sourness and despair, frivolity and decadence. He had seen the Evenstar, and loved her. 

Arwen had called forth from him a desire beyond his imaginings, and their parting had left an emptiness in his heart he could neither name nor deny-for indeed love seemed to pale a word for it. And something had happened to him, that day he walked the streets of Umbar, and left just such a space inside him. What it meant, and what he would do about it, he did not know. 

He took out the letter he had received and unfolded it, setting it upon the desk before him. It was yellowed and smudged from much handling. 

_Friend, _

I hope this letter finds you safe and well. I write you from under the sheltering branches of the old pine-tree. Though about us the leaves are turning gold and red, it is as sturdy and timeless as always, and shelters your kin kindly. 

The harvest this year has been bountiful, and the winter promises to be mild. The flocks, I fear, have done less well, for we have been plagued by wolves, and lost a number of sheep who wandered too far. The pack has been eliminated, but I fear our mutual cousin, Taralas, was badly injured in the hunt, and died a few days later. Perhaps you remember his son, Tarchil; he has grown into a fine man, and between us we manage things here well enough. 

Faithfully yours,  
Halanon Halorchalion 

He had promised to go. He could not expect the dúnedain to soldier on without their chieftain forever. Their fate had lain in Taralas' hands for most of forty-five years; but he was dead now. At the least Aragorn needed to confirm a new regent. 

Yet-no; he must do it in person. But he needn't go there immediately, nor stay there forever. Taralas was nearly seven months dead; if Halanon and Tarchil were struggling, he would have had news of it by now. Surely they could bide a few more months without him. For he had wished for many years to take the measure of Minas Morgul, and of Mordor itself, if he could; and now that the Steward, who ill-understood his superior competencies, could no longer keep him from it, he was resolved to it. He could make his way through Ithilien without notice, and then go north as he pleased; he had even an idea of visiting Lóthlorien, though he was uncertain what reception he should have there. 

And there was Umbar. Though that would have to wait, for now. 

He cleared the reports he had finished the day before to the side. The most urgent ones had already been sent up-river; these were just the finishing details, in which he had tied up his duties as best he could. But there was one last thing to do. He took out a clean sheet of fine paper and wrote in his clear, neat hand: 

_Lord, _

In love I have served you, and in love I must leave you. But Thorongil shall not forget Gondor; and it may be that, after much time and many perils, I shall return again. 

That was no good. He tried crossing out just the first bit, but then zagged his quill across the whole thing. It wasn't right. He got out a clean sheet and tried again. 

_I have done what I set out to do, lord, and other tasks now call me. Though I am far away, think not that I have forgotten Gondor; for after much time and many perils, if it be my fate, I shall return._

He crossed that out, crumpled it up, and tossed it away. 

_Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate._

Aragorn set his quill down. The first quivers of light were soaking onto the street, and outside the window he could see an early shower dusting the cobbles with dark speckles. 

His chair slid noisily across the wooden floor as he stood. He turned and looked around the room. On his bed lay a plain, dark pack, with such food and tools as he might need, and full waterskins; his shortbow and quiver; and his favourite sword. His armour still stood upon its stand, gleaming in the faint light. It had been a gift from Ecthelion, and was beautifully engraved; he was very sorry to leave it behind, but it ill-suited a ranger's ways. 

He turned back to the desk and brusquely folded the letter and dabbed it with black wax. For one brief moment he was tempted to mark it for once, but he knew that was folly. He tossed the two discarded attempts into the brazier, watching them crumple and disintegrate, and then he arranged his gear carefully about him, checking that it was properly balanced, and that nothing would rub. 

With the letter in his pocket he walked slowly down to the riverfront. The speckling had turned to a light mist, and he pulled up his hood, strolling anonymously down market street, buying a bit of bread and cheese for his breakfast. He sat on a barrel near the fishing quays to eat, watching the men as they offloaded their pre-dawn catch and hawked it to the first of the housewives and servants fetching prawns or catfish or crawdads for the table. 

When he judged the hour was right he went down to the citadel's quays where the _Nimchathol_ and the other ships that had returned from Umbar were docked. 

"I hope you have called us out in this chill for a good reason, Captain," grumbled Valandur. 

"Don't be so gruff, Valandur," said Ostoher. "You turned us out so early last night we've no morning regrets at all. Though I would like to know," he added, taking in Aragorn's discreet garb, "what the costume is for. Are you going hunting without us?" 

"Yes," he replied, "I suppose that I am." 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Aragorn looked at them all, suddenly uncertain what to say. Grumpy, reliable Valandur; dear Ostoher, so quietly courageous; the handsome but melancholy Lómiol, and the weather-beaten but jocund Níomir; and the brash, debonair young prince, who still thought the world was his for the taking. 

In these five men, and in Beringol and Turgirion, who stood nearby, he must now saw farewell to Gondor. 

"I shall not be returning with you to Minas Tirith," Aragorn announced. 

"I don't understand," said Imrahil, his brow furrowed. "Has there been word from Golasgil? I thought the Bay was quiet." 

"It is. We have dealt the corsairs a mighty blow, and they will not trouble these shores for many years-at least by ship. It is not with them that I am concerned. I am leaving Gondor." 

"But you can't!" Níomir interjected. "Gondor needs you! The Steward needs you," he insisted. 

"Gondor has fared without me before, my friend. And what the White City needs now is unity, and you may better have it without me." 

"Need the two be irreconcilable?" 

"Where each knows their place," Valandur said stoutly, "There is no discord." 

"Yet men fear what they do not know," said Lómiol. "And Thorongil is inscrutable. The confrontation you attempt to repudiate will come, sooner or later." 

Valandur snorted. "But it is a poor excuse to abandon us on. By your will were we united and the ships and shipyards of our enemy laid to ruin. And now you will just walk away, unharmed and unencumbered, and leave us to deal with the consequences? Have you no regard for the position you shall put me in?" 

"I have great regard for it," Aragorn said. "But if I go now, Valandur, and disappear, then 'twill be harder for Umbar to seek revenge. Let the Council blame the attack on my influence, and say that I am gone from the court. 

"Gondor has many fine diplomats, yourself included. My presence among you would be a hindrance, not an advantage." 

"Enough of politics, my friend," said Ostoher, "Why should they drive you from your home? If it is only Minas Tirith you wish to be spared of a few seasons, why not return to Tolfalas with me? I should greatly enjoy your company, and Umbar need not know you are there." 

"I thank you, friend. Such a furlough would be sweet indeed; and I would tarry awhile with you if I could. But I have other errands." 

"But where shall you go?" he asked. "Surely not back to Rohan." 

"No. There are other tasks that call me. Some that I have put off far too long, and must seek resolution of. And there are far horizons I have never touched." 

"You have duties here," pleaded Níomir. 

"Do not fear," Aragorn said kindly. "I shall not forget them; and my road may lead me again to the White City, when need is great." 

"I hope it is so," said Ostoher, "though I fear I shall not live to see it." 

Around them a thousand drops of rain came sliding from the sky, beating out their chorus against the quay and the river-water. Aragorn put a hand on Ostoher's shoulder and led them out of the rain. From the shelter of the awning he called Turgirion closer. The young man had been standing in the background with Beringol, clearly feeling out of place. 

"Yes, Captain Thorongil?" 

Aragorn smiled at him and took his hand. "Your father was a brave man, and a good one. We are all grateful for the part he played, and sorry we did not bring him home again." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Though we part ways now," Aragorn said, "I hope you shall continue on to Minas Tirith. I know the Steward will wish to speak with you." 

Turgirion nodded, his grey eyes a solemn echo of the clouded sky. 

"Truly, Thorongil," said Níomir, "there shall be great sorrow in the City when it is heard that you shall not return. What may we say to them, who do not understand ourselves why you forsake us?" 

"And what am I to tell Ecthelion?" asked Valandur. "Do you give no thought for him?" 

"He is the Steward of Gondor; he will understand that we each do as we need to. Please give him this," said Aragorn, handing Valandur the letter he had written that morning. "I rely on you to see it well delivered." 

Valandur sighed. "I shall do so. Though it seems of late I am become your messenger, Thorongil, and I like it not." 

"Do this last thing, and you shall never again be so importuned." 

"If I am glad or not, I do not know; for though I do not like you, I fear for Gondor in your absence." 

"Will you not stay, Thorongil, just a while longer?" said Imrahil. "Return to Minas Tirith with us. If you are still resolved in this course, at least we may give you a proper farewell." 

Aragorn shook his head. "The skies are clearing," he said softly, "and perhaps it will be a bright day after all. Come. I must delay this no longer." 

The patter of the rain had indeed relented, and the men walked down together to the water. Beringol had readied a small dory (which was now very damp) and he called over the men who were to row it. Aragorn bade farewell there to Lómiol and Turgirion, but the others all climbed into the gently rocking rowboat with him, and they set out for the other shore. 

They landed east of the rough town that hugged the southern end of the bridge, all that remained of the once prosperous southern half of the town. In the paleness of the morning it reminded him strongly of Umbar, for it too had been slowly abandoned by the dúnedain over centuries of conflict and neglect, and her once-proud spires and domes were only an echo of what they once had been. A dusty track led east along the bank, and the men stood there in silence for some minutes. At last Aragorn said that the sun was climbing, and the time of their parting had come. 

"Do you truly mean to go through with this?" Níomir said. "At the least, will you not choose some more civilized destination? The south and east are cruel places. I do not understand what you will do there, or what you expect to find." 

"It will be most dangerous," Ostoher added. "The Haradrim must be furious, with you above all; and if they find you, you will surely die." 

"Then it is best," Aragorn said, "that you tell them I am dead already. Though I do not intend to fall within their grasp, it may be easier for you. No doubt Imrahil may come up with a suitable story for them." 

"Well, " said Valandur, "no doubt Denethor should enjoy it." Aragorn saw then that Valandur, at least, had guessed what had passed between the two. But there would be enough rumour floating around with him adding to it, so he replied only, "It is for the best.' 

"How can that beâ€¦" interjected the prince. 

How young he was. "I could have made many choices, Imrahil, but only one of them would be for Gondor." 

He looked out over the river plain toward the distant Mountains of Shadow. His enemy; his destination. If he told them what he had in mind, they would think him crazy (if, indeed, they did not already.) 

No one understood, except perhaps Elrond; their sight was too short, or too long. Into memory he would fade, and then legend; for age and strife would wear most of these men down into the ground, before he might come again. 

He clasped arms with Valandur and Níomir, and then with Imrahil. Valandur was indecipherable, but the latter two looked as dispirited as he had ever seen him. 

"Say farewell to your son for me," he said, embracing Ostoher, "And take care of yourself. Drink that tea I recommended." 

"I will," he replied. "Good luck." 

Lastly he clasped Beringol close. "Even when all hope seems lost, my friend, there is still _estel_," he said. "Do not give up." Beringol just nodded mutely. 

It is a strange thing, that leave-taking makes suddenly precious what was previously over-looked. At the hour he threw it away, their kinship seemed most close. But as a snake sheds his skin, leaving behind the husk he has outgrown, so Aragorn knew he must shed Thorongil, and go forth cloaked in some new form. 

"Farewell," he said, and turned his back on the men of Gondor, and walked toward the sunrise. 

---  
_Author's Notes_

_from _ROTK, Appendix A, The Stewards: 'He sent a message of farewell to Ecthelion, saying: "Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate." Though none could guess what those tasks might be, nor what summons he had received, it was known whither he went. For he took boat and crossed over Anduin, and there he said farewell to his companions and went on alone; and when he was last seen his face was towards the Mountains of Shadow.' 

I don't usually listen to music as a write, but this particular chapter was background-ed by the wonderful LOTR-inspired piano melody "Celtic Legend", by Spaeth. You can download the mp3 free from Amazon. 

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_General Acknowledgements, &c._:

First of all, this is unabashedly based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. Thank-you for sharing Middle-earth with us. You may now have all your characters back, mostly unharmed. 

Second, my thanks to all who reviewed. It took me several years to unravel the whole tale, and comments helped keep me going. I have had some very good advice, most recently from Dwimordene, and will be coming back to revise this story in a few months. If there were any parts you thought worked especially well, or especially poorly, or if you were confused about anything, I'd love to know about. 

Third, a good deal of research is holding up the back end of this story. Lalaith's "The Third Realm in Exile" (http/people. & "The History of the Men of Darkness in Rhun in Harad" (http/people. and Chris Seeman's Re-thinking Umbar (http/ all influenced Umbar's design. Thank you! 

In addition, the city bears a decided resemblance to medieval Genoa, and I relied heavily on three maps, 'Genua' by Hartmann Schedel (1493, imprint A. Koberger), â€˜'Genua' by G.F. Camocio (1560, pub. 1572 Braun and Hogenberg), and 'A Plan of the City of Genoa' (1800, pub. John Stockdale) in conceiving it. 

Lastly, I drew information on fortifications, ship and harbour design and naval warfare primarily from George F. Bass' A History of Seafaring, Susan Rose's Medieval Naval Warfare, 1000-1500, J.S. Morrison & R.T. William's Greek Oared Ships: 900-322 B.C., Lionel Cassel's Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World, and L. Sprague de Camp's The Ancient Engineers.

Okay, I'm done now. But Aragorn is not! I have an assortment of (mostly Aragorn) fics in progress at the moment, and hopefully the first of them, "The Spider", will be out within a week or so. It's not exactly a sequel, but certainly touches on his time in Gondor. There is a real sequel, "Look Homeward, Ranger", but I will probably do a final edit on this story before I seriously start on it, so it may be awhile. 

Thank-you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! 

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, and the characters, settings, places and languages, save those that are original to me, belong to the Tolkien Estate.


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